Not Your Hero
by Ritardando
Summary: There were the Hunger Games as you read them – the way she wanted you to see them. She never told you she was from the Capitol, did she? She never told you that what you were reading wasn't fiction, that it was my life. I am Katniss Everdeen, "The Girl on Fire". Don't let her make you believe I was a hero.
1. Not Your Hero

Do not call me the "Girl on Fire". I wish she had told you the truth. I only agreed to let her see the real me because she promised me she would tell the truth! I told her everything; let her rip me apart because I thought it would shed some light on the real Hunger Games, not the Hunger Games they painted all over, the Hunger Games that glorified the winner, the Hunger Games that might've broken a few, but made life better so many more. But she just added one more layer to the lie. If you can't figure out who I'm talking about, it's the bitch, Suzanne Collins. She pretended to be one of you, and you believed her. She is just another one of them, hiding behind a mask of makeup and dyed hair and technology that I could only dream of.

I will not tell you the flaws in her story; I will let you see them for yourself. Please do not think any less of me because I was not the hero that you wanted me to be. Please do not think any less of me because I fell in love – with the wrong person. Please just let me tell my story as I meant for it to be told. Please. There are so many people, glorifying me as a hero, one to be revered for her contributions to a "fictional" society.

I am alive.

Panem is real.

My name is Katniss Everdeen, and this is my real story, the story of the girl who got caught in her own flames.

**A/N: I apologize for the short, short prologue! I promise the other chapters will be more eventful; I just felt this was the best way to convey the general "pitch" of the story. Next update is schedules for the first of October, though that may or may not happen. Happy reading! :)**


	2. How Did I Start a Fire?

The morning was the coldest I had ever felt. Even through my leggings and my father's thick fur coat, I could feel the cold worming its way through me as I pulled on my boots. The sun wasn't yet up as I grabbed my bow and a quiver of arrows (hidden dangerously in our house – I should've been more careful) and leapt out the door, trying to keep ahead of the swarms of peacekeepers that would soon be arriving to supervise the Reaping of the dreaded Hunger Games. I sighed. When I reached the fence, I climbed. She probably had you believe this fence was something that, while a nuisance, wasn't a nearly impossible climb. She had you believe wrong. It towered overhead, made of what was essentially pleated barbed wire, towering over me at nearly eight feet high. To climb it was hell. My hands are still torn from the endless weeks, months, years of climbing that fence. They will never be the pretty hands of those who do soft work, of the people in the Capitol. It hurts to hold a bow, but I pretend it doesn't, because my life is all about pretending any more. They only want to see the mask of me, the "perfect" me, the me that she showed you. Don't believe it.

After shimmying up the barbed wire, then back down again, I ran. The kind of running that makes you feel alive, but reminds you that maybe you won't be any longer. I ran until my lungs ached, and I was too far in the forest to risk being spotted. The animals abounded here, even in the wintertime. It was free pickings – throw a rock, get a shot. I strung my bow with an arrow, and then kicked a rock into the undergrowth, sending a group of squirrels scurrying away from me. I picked one off, then quickly restrung my bow and caught another. Both of them had gorgeous, fiery red coats. Not that it would help me much – squirrel fur wasn't exactly "desirable", but the meat sure was. I glanced at the horizon, and was happy to see it was still not pinkening. Hunting made me happy, in a twisted way. I tried to convince myself that it was not sadism that mad me smile with pleasure when I heard the arrow whizzing through the air, then it suddenly stop as it hit flesh and ground through bone. This is why going to the Hunger Games was not as horrible as she might have painted it out to be – but that hasn't happened yet. Forget I said anything. I continued to hunt until rose tinged the horizon, and even then it was only with reluctance I shot my last arrow. In all, I had gotten eight squirrels, though they would probably need to come back to the house with me; it was too busy today to do any real business, and the squirrels could probably stay fresh for a little while.

You may be wondering why there was no mention of the almighty Gale during this whole hunting monologue. Gale does exist, just in a…different way. Gale was the name of my younger brother, not my hunting partner. He was (is?) sweet and sensitive and not having him around anymore still hurt me. He ran away when he was twelve – he would be fifteen now, if he survived. He was terrified of those stupid Games, so terrified he would risk a different kind of torture to escape them. He showed me one day where he was going to go. Deep into the woods, past even the furthest stretch where I'd been hunting. I taught him briefly how to hunt, how to gather, too. That was probably where she got the idea of making him my hunting partner. I would have to double, triple my running distance to get to him. I was too scared, though – too scared to find him gone, or a pile of bones. So Gale exists. My little brother exists; don't take that away from me like she did. Speaking of little brothers, this might make you think of a certain Primrose Everdeen, my little sister. She exists, too. She is the only thing that whore got right about my life. Beautiful, like a primrose, golden hair that falls in unbroken sheets around her shoulders, bright sapphire blue eyes that are always warm – she is the best sister anyone could ever have. I'm sorry about my tangents. It's hard to sit here and tell the story like it's supposed to be told when I can't even figure it out myself. I would sit here and rearrange into a logical order if there was one, if I could be bothered to. Right now, I just want to get it all out. Bear with me, will you?

I couldn't run back. My hands were occupied with a string full of dead squirrels, and I could never run right with something in my hands. Primrose and my mother could always tell when I hadn't brought anything because I would be beet-faced and sweaty when I returned home. Even so, I had to speed-walk to get back to the border in time. To not be there during the Reaping would be an even worse offense than hunting, I think. They love their Reaping. After what felt like forever, the sun was already halfway up into the sky, and I reached the fence. I dropped my bow cautiously into a fallen log, along with the arrows, and climbed up the fence with the end of the string of squirrels in my teeth, commando style. Instead of bothering to climb back down, I let myself fall, which, though jarring, was not particularly dangerous. I tried to be discreet, hiding the squirrels under my jacket as I stalked back home, my boots crunching against the gravel. I slipped in the door, and sighed when I saw my mother sitting there expectantly.

I suppose now is the time to introduce the rest of the Everdeen family. There is a father, but not my father. My father died in that fabled mining "accident"…which I honestly don't think was an accident. More on that later (if I remember). My father is Prim's father and Gale's father, but not the father of the rest. The new bastard my mother married loved her, but she didn't love him; just his money. Here comes the part that's difficult to explain. 'Katniss, if your step-dad is rich, why do you still hunt?' you may be thinking. The answer to that is the fact that he considers Prim and I bastards (as in, children with no father). He refuses to pay for food for us, and our mother doesn't make him. We're lucky to be living under his roof. My mom doesn't care about Prim and I, when that sick bastard keeps on knocking her up. So I hunt to support us. Prim has a goat (a different one than you've heard about. It's still a pretty long story. Later, when I tell you more about my adorable little sister), so we sell the cheese to the baker, who uses it in cheese buns. That makes us a pretty penny, because we receive something like twenty percent of every cheese bun sale, and cheese buns are wicked expensive. (I will tell you about the baker boy, I promise. Like I said, this is where my mind takes me, not where it should go). Just to give you some sort of history about my mother's pregnancy experience; it was me first. She waited about three months before screwing again and had Gale. Then there was a quiet period of three years when she was trying to deal with two kids under the age of two in the house before she had Prim. My father died when Prim was about five. She remarried when Prim was seven, and has steadily had a child every year since then, for a grand total of five half-siblings (Elena, Eleanor, Eva, Ere and Ella), with another on the way. These are the Everdeens. Now, back to the story (again).

My mother sat there, her hands on her extremely rounded belly. She tried to glare at me, but it didn't work. I was her child, too, and even though she didn't advocate for me, she wouldn't let me starve. She sighed, and didn't speak for a moment before finally admonishing, "Put them in the corner." I carefully bundled the squirrels in cloth, and then ran upstairs to get dressed for the Reaping. The oldest of my half siblings is only five, but Prim is twelve this year. Her going to the Reaping scared me more than anything in the world. I briefly considered sending her to live with Gale, but the combined thought that he may be dead and that she was not cut out for forest living stopped me. Instead I sat there, near to tears, when she put on her Reaping dress. Beautiful and elegant, almost Capitol worthy – I had splurged on it after a day of good hunting, and had not yet regretted it. It was shimmering rainbow gossamer over a layer of white silk, and it made Prim seem vibrant; her eyes turned brighter blue and her hair lighter blonde, her cream skin seeming to shine and glow with a peach-toned halo. I slipped on a simple white frock, which fell awkwardly around my frame, but was the only nice thing I owned. I carefully folded Prim's hair into a braid, and then drew it up onto her head in a bun. We were ready to go, but I wasn't sure I wanted to. But we had to. I might have accidentally kicked Eleanor in the head as I was leaving our shared bedroom, which made me feel better; she didn't wake up, so all was well. The sun was now blazing through our east-facing window, and I took Prim's hand in mine as we went out into the street. The Reaping scared the shit out of me, yet every year I had to attend. Every year I came early to try to quell my fears, but every year they still leapt around in my stomach and throat. I knew that my mother, her husband, and my half-siblings would be rousing themselves to watch in front of the TV, watching as our fates for this year were decided. It's not like they would care if we were Reaped, anyway. We meant next to nothing to them.

Prim and I separated after we signed in. You know the story from here. Primrose Everdeen was Reaped. I volunteered.

Somehow I started a fire.

**A/N: Due to popular demand I updated early. I'm really sorry if this seems scatterbrained, that's just always how I've imagined Katniss. You get a lot of the main characters out of the way as far as character effect on the story goes, except for a few of them. ;) Next chapter will probably be done sometime near October 10, maybe sooner. Happy reading. :)**


	3. Say Goodbye

I was surprised when my first visitor arrived. A slight bruise was swelling near her left temple, dusky gray accented with purple, standing out against her tomato red skin and sweaty face. Eleanor? I was prepared for the barrage of younger half siblings, but it seemed like the four year old had come alone. I wanted to be angry at her, for taking the life that I could've had, but instead, I let her sit on my lap, and we cried together. Her face twisted up and we both sobbed. I didn't know she would be able to comprehend the severity of the situation – she would probably never see me again. Yet the way she was crying made me believe she did understand. Why was she here? Why did she care? Her parents obviously weren't coming, and it wasn't like I'd been the nicest to her – the bruise on her head was my fault. I didn't notice she had anything in her hand until her meaty fist opened to reveal it. Glimmering gold, a bird with an arrow clutched in its claws. I took it carefully into my own hand, and as soon as I did, she leapt off my lap and dashed out of the room. She hadn't said a word to me, and I hadn't said a word to her, but suddenly I loved my half sister. She was suddenly different, like my eyes had opened.

Then there was my second visitor, the baker's son. Ah, the famed Peeta Mellark. Did you really think she told you the truth about him? Did you really think that I'd fall in love with him? Did you really think he was in love with me? He was what I might consider a friend, seeing as I saw him nearly every day to sell him my sister's goat cheese. We'd talk about the silliest things – the way we thought orange juice might taste or how business was at the bakery. It was nice to have someone I could talk to, even if it didn't really matter. Peeta walked in and gave me a hug; a comforting hug, a hug a brother might give a sister. There was nothing, absolutely nothing that would suggest he was in love with me. Read that again. Peeta Mellark is not in love with me. Don't waste your time believing it, because I refuse to acknowledge the fact that Peeta was in love with me in her version of my life. On a related note, I do not support incest, so therefore Gale is not in love with me either. Peeta was pretty much my best friend, and Gale is my little brother. I love them both, but not in that way.

I guess I didn't expect him to come, because I was still in shock when he left. Our conversation was quick and simple. Stay alive. Please, stay alive. I'll stay alive. That sort of thing. When he left, I felt empty yet fulfilled. Empty, because I was still going to die. Fulfilled, because at least someone cared. It was not a long wait before I was escorted onto the train, into a cabin that was sealed off from the rest of the world, a heavy steel door and a window, a small window. Too small for a human to fit through. Did they really think anyone would be that desperate, to launch themselves out of a window? I wanted to try, I wanted a chance. Suicide was not an option, though I admit that shadows of it crossed my mind.

It was only when I looked out the window, so her in her beautiful dress, golden hair now unraveled from its meticulous hairdo, blue eyes engulfed in tears, that I remembered who had been absent in my visitations. She fought her way forward, moving through the throngs of people. I was going to die, and my little sister was not allowed to say goodbye. And suddenly, she disappeared, no more than a memory of her crying as she pushed forward to remember her by. The crowd was a ghost etched onto the back of my eyelids as we surged forward, so fast my head was spinning before we had even been moving for a minute. We flew across tracks, heading from the extremities of Panem into its pulsing heart, where everyone was alive and happy and beautiful. Or at least, that's what I thought, before I saw past the gilding that coated them all, into the tumultuous hearts beneath.

Even through the breath-taking speed, I could still see, through my little window, a whole world I had never noticed before. Forests like mine, which were lush and green. Mountains that coal was mined from, towering over the landscape in millions of shades of grey, occasionally with a thread of people climbing up them, looking like no more than a fiber of black against the grey. The scenes changed, I was sure, but after jut a few minutes, I couldn't stand to look at the window, see the world move on as my life came crashing down around my ears. So many thoughts battled for my attention that none of them got it. I kneaded my eyes with my knuckles, and briefly considered the notion of sleep. I can't remember what she said I did, but it was not so glamorous. I was allowed to move between only certain cars of the train, and none of them were any better, in my opinion, than this one. Yes, there was beautiful food, yes, the train cars were beautiful, but what did that matter if I had no freedom?

I ended up just watching the people. All three of my companions. Effie Trinket, who used her make up to hide her insecurities. She was abused as a child, by her father who took much advantage of the many drugs available in the Capitol. She would cry herself to sleep and then powder on the makeup in the morning to hide the tearstains and the scars. She dyed her hair pink so that people would notice the color, not the patches where it had been torn out, and had never grown back. She wore rigid clothing because everything that touched her reminded her of him, and it singed her skin, even in memory.

Haymitch Abernathy, who was not a hopeless alcoholic, yet still hopeless. The Hunger Games took everything from him; his ingenuity, though saving him, killed everyone whom he cared about. He thought his life would get better; his family would have to stop the war against poverty, only to find that his selfishness had killed them. He dyed water an assortment of colors to pretend it was alcohol. It hid his depression, and no one wondered why he stayed up late and then got up past noon.

Seeing these people, who were supposed to be my idols, who were supposed to be the ideals of my world stripped back to the bare bones, to see them so small, broke me more than the games ever did. But there was still a sort of twisted beauty in my breaking. There were four of us. Haymitch and Effie, me, and then the boy tribute from my district.

If Peeta Mellark did not go with me to the Hunger Games, though, who did? A boy (if you couldn't assume). A boy who was kind enough – our fathers died in the same mining "accident". A boy who was tall, with raven black hair and dusky grey eyes and a smile that could light up a whole planet. A boy who looked so much like my younger brother might've, had I been able to see him grow beyond the scrawny weakling he was raised as. A boy who made me smile just to think of him, the way he filled up a room with his personality. The way he thought was unique. The way he acted was so different from anyone I had ever met; absolutely no regard for himself, selfless and bold. A boy who was so grievously misunderstood by that monster who changed my story. A boy who showed me the real him, before it could be ripped away. A boy with a name. A boy with a name I still can't say, because he's gone now. Not a common name, a unique name. Unique like him. A boy named Cato.

**A/N: So sorry for the delay! In case you didn't see the chapter uploaded before this, my laptop's battery died right as I was about to save the chapter, so not only was it deleted, but I just got access to my computer back! Thanks so much for your patience. Next chapter is going to be done by Halloween, though it probably will be uploaded the day before, on the 30th. Happy reading!**


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